Memoirs of a Childhood
by Strawberie La
Summary: I dedicate these memoirs to my childhood. Despite the hallowness of the pages, it trully was, very sweet.
1. SPK Files No1

S.P.K. Files

No.1

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Childhood

"_Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age  
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.  
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies."_

Edna St. Vincent Millay


	2. Memories

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

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"Memories"

An Introduction

"_Memories are all we really own."_

Elias Lieberman

L.A. January 1, 2008

I ONCE READ in a book by Bryce Courtenay, an acknowledgement of his that was dedicated with these opening lines: "A book is essentially about characters, about the shadowy figures that people a writer's imagination until, expurgated at last, they end up with some wholeness on the page."

That's nice. I suppose. I'm not sure why the acknowledgements are the only lines I can recall from Courtenay's book. Perhaps the rest of it was poorly written – a muddled excuse of stringed words in one man's overrated imagination. Then again, living the fast life I've lived, I'm lucky to remember my own name.

That being said, I do take a small amount of pleasure from just passing by all of life's enticements; promising my subordinates that their brains will be blown out if they disturb me, and reading. Stories, because no one understands better than me, that autobiographies are frivolous lies wrapped in a leather-bound jacket.

I am no writer. I have never been one, and it is of little use to begin now. The memoirs that I have written cannot be categorized under the title of an autobiography, because nothing has been embellished. Likewise, everything has not been recorded for the purpose of a cheap story. Rather, these pages are something entirely new and in between. I won't stand for any of this to be published or read by anyone except for myself, and perhaps one other person. I'll dedicate my own shoddy writing to my future unmarked grave.

I have already written the Los Angeles BB Murder Case, which in all honesty, was published for gloating purposes. If I had more time, I think I would have written the case from a more personable approach. But that is all over and done with, and this is this.

I suppose a proper introduction, following Courtenay's philosophy, would include a dim recollection of where I was born, who my family was, and what my childhood was like. My memoirs would retell the shadowy figures of my past – the characters that impacted my childhood the most, and the triumphs we shared; and everything would leave a nice wholeness upon each and every page.

Unless your memories are like mine – empty. Sure, my life has been nothing short of brilliance and glory; when you are the lone successor of the greatest detective in the world, glamour is more than just a privilege. My purpose is to pass all this glamour, and delve into something more hallow and personal.

I was born in Croatia in the year 1995 – in _medias res_. That is to say, in the middle of August when the Croatian arm retaliated against the Serbs by launching a full-scale invasion to recover all of the Serbian-occupied areas, in a series of two offenses: _Blijesak_ (Lightning), in the northern part of Croatia, and _Oluja_ (Storm), in the far south.

Croatia had reestablished their borders that exist today, and the Erdut Agreement brought peace to the region. Conversely, Croatia's victory was not settled without the loss of bloodshed. Most of the 600,000 Serbs that were living in Croatia/Krajina were forced into Serbia or were slaughtered. During the invasion, Croatians retaliated against the Serbians by performing the same "ethnic cleansing" that was practiced on them during their fight for independence.

This meant that until the Dayton Agreement, which would be reached in November 1995, I was to endure the sheer terror of revenge by shelling for four whole months. Why was this of importance? I was Croatian, so was my family – not one of had the blood of a Serb. Alas, my beloved city of Zadar was marked territory of Croatian-Serb control.

I promise that most of my memories will not go astray from the foils of too much useless detail that often surmounts a narrator. So you will hear little of my life before being deemed an orphan. The part of my life, the one that has been blurred by years of grief, strange tongues, and too much time away from the sea, is over and done with. They are my shattered fragments of happiness that will lie with me, buried forever.

I forgot; if anyone else unearths these notes besides Near and the self-righteous S.P.K., before my proper time has come, I expect an author's name is in order. I am yours truly; a Wammy's failure, and a permanent subordinate, the best dresser who vanished into legend. My name is Mihael Keehl, I used to call myself Mello, but that was a long time ago.

Sweet dreams, and bitter nightmares.

Sincerely,

Mihael Keehl

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**A/N: **I have finally discovered what exactly I want to do with this story. So far, I have started rewriting every chapter to fit my new tastes. I can't promise that I will always update consistently. I am not writing for an audience anymore - this is entirely for myself. I have been distracted as of late, but I promised myself I was going to finish this. I would be pleased with reviews, or any other kind of feedback.

*** **I wrote this while listening to "The Grand Duel" by Luis Bacalov.


	3. A Childhood

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

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"A Childhood"

"_'Tis not a life, 'Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away."_

Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher

Zadar, Hrvatska August 27, 1995

MY PROPER LIFE started and ended when I was six years old, nearing the age of seven, on a Friday in mid August 1995, when my mother, my father, and my brother died. Just like that.

I don't remember the grand explosion of their deaths. I do remember eventually separating myself from that little crowd of people surrounding the charred remains of my parents and brother, that I was too scared gutless to look for by myself; and I suppose there were of course, others dead in the school wreckage too; but I don't remember anything else. I think bawling your eyes out does that – it helps you forget unpleasant details.

When you are six, as I am sure you were once, you should know that at times, even your own small world is too vast and strange to be of comfort; that everything suddenly becomes very frustrating, and that you are lonely.

But you also know that when you are good and ready; ready to love and be loved again; ready to understand and accept the strangeness of your world – you can. You have the softness and warmth of your mother and the protection of your father, and the love of your brother, waiting for you with open arms and soothing kisses. And you are safe. When you are an orphan, as I had surely become, this is not one of your luxuries. You are lonely and alone forevermore, and it doesn't seem like it will ever change. And when you are six, this can all become very overwhelming.

And as I can tell you, the whole circumstance felt like a travesty to me. I was sure that as soon as I stopped this ridiculous blubbing; my only, and favorite auntie, would come find me and sweep me into her arms and tell me that it was just my brilliant, imagination getting the best of me. She always did, and she was always right. But she did not come. And so I wandered.

After a little while of dazed wandering, filled with much whimpering and calls to no one, I came to sit on the sugar, white sanded shores of my lovely beach, and contemplated these inexplicable and tragic affairs to the sea. My small legs were pulled protectively against my naked chest as I rocked back and forth in time to the gentle laps of the tide.

My sobs were returned with no real response; except for the quick little rush and pull of the cool waves that tumbled over my bare toes. All the same, this small gesture was enough comfort to rack my body with fresh tears; which carried me late into that night when the moon and the stars had awakened themselves in the red sky and cast their soft glow upon my bowed head, so that my golden hair was illuminated like a pretty angel's halo.

No one came for me. Soon I became weary of my bawling and found that I had lost my voice. So I collapsed onto the soft, sugar-sand, and closing my swollen eyes; I sent a silent prayer to God, begging him to rid me of my horrid loneliness and my parentless future by tomorrow.

I can assuredly concur, that when I awoke the following morning, neither of my prayers had been answered.

Sincerely,

Mihael Keehl

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**A/N: **Some of you may be familiar with this chapter. I only edited it just a bit. Reviews are welcome, but again this story is entirely for me now. I suppose I should mention that the direction I'm headed with in this first arc will focus on Mihael's childhood and explain some of his future characteristics that no one else seems to bother explaining. I have no idea why; building history for characters like Mihael who have such distinct personalities is so much fun. I want everything about him to be believable and meaningful.

*** **I wrote this while listening to "About Strange Lands and People" by Robert Schumann.


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